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I want my son to have a bar mitzvah. Those who know me find this strange, since persuading me to get Elijah circumcised was like pulling teeth, or, at least, pulling foreskin. But while both of these events mark major Jewish rites of passage, one can easily make the argument that the bris is an outdated barbaric custom.
A bar (or bat) mitzvah, on the other hand, can be a majestic celebration of maturity, a reaffirmation of faith, a super-fun party, and a consecration of the sanctity of family life. I still remember my bar mitzvah with great fondness, even though it rained the entire week before and we had to have the party in the temple rec room. Also, I didn’t invite any girls and spent the entire night dancing with my cousin Kara. Still, I loved my bar mitzvah, and want my son to know that same joy.
The problem lies in getting there. I can recall few experiences more miserable in my life than Hebrew school. The kids were jerks, the classroom facilities borrowed, and the work dull and repetitive. We had pretty good teachers. I did learn Hebrew and could sing my haftarah from memory by the time I was done. In general, though, the whole thing felt alienating, disconnected from the rest of my world, just another excuse to get bullied by kids whose families had more money than mine.
Neal Pollack: Today I am a man.
My father either didn’t care, or didn’t notice. Hebrew school, to his mind, was something you did. It’s what he’d done, and his father before that, and on down through the generations. But there was a big difference. Judaism wasn’t just an aspect of my father’s childhood. His parents emigrated from Germany in 1934, so it was the defining fact of his existence, even his entire world.
When my dad, as a kid, had stuttering problems, he went to his cantor. For me, growing up in suburban Phoenix, a city with far more Mormons than Jews, the cantor was just a guy who looked like Sydney Pollack (no relation). I’d stop by his office for chanting lessons, but he wouldn’t remember my name from one week to the next. I’d never had a personal conversation with the rabbi who presided over my bar mitzvah. Judaism was part of my life, a fairly large part, but it occupied its own area, far away from my other fancies and concerns.
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